He raised his pint pot and, misty-eyed, announced: “We’ve won 900 million pesos in the Colombian state lottery.

“And the amazing thing is they put the numbers in for us. That’s what I call a country!”

“How much is 900 million pesos?” I asked.

“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” he replied. “Here’s the letter confirming the jackpot, personally signed by El Presidente, Señor Jiminez.”

To claim the prize, Colin simply has to give President Jiminez his bank details, inform the Colombian government’s representative in Coseley – a man named Fat Daz – when his home is unattended, and tell him where he leaves his car keys.

To comply with the South American country’s lottery laws, he must also write down how much he’d pay should a family member be kidnapped. This is purely a precaution, the letter states.

“It’s a scam,” I told the sozzled merrymakers, halting the conga chain before it spilled onto the pub car park.

“It is not,” huffed Colin. “The letter’s even got the Colombian coat of arms on it. Look, you can clearly see Lisa Stanfield’s face in the middle – below the gold leaf toilet roll.”

“Ask yourself this,” I cautioned the jubilant winner. “Have you ever entered the Colombian state lottery?”

“Listen,” I said, shaking my drinking companion. “It’s a con. Write back and it’ll be the last you see of that £4.60 you’ve got in your bank account.”

“If any offer is too good to be true,” I advised, “it usually isn’t or is – I get mixed up. Unless it’s that free bucket of chicken nuggets and root beer with every deep-fried suckling pig purchased at the fast-food place up the road.”

“Tell that to those who witnessed the loaves and fishes miracle,” argued Colin.

“I’m not sure how much 900 million pesos is in real money,” he admitted, “but over there it’ll get you a tin mine.

“You can’t stand the thought I’ve won something and you haven’t,” chided Colin. “Like that time I found that stray animal. I wanted to keep it, but, oh no, you had to tell the authorities.”

“It was a llama, Colin,” I pointed out, testily.

“Just look at it logically. You didn’t pick any numbers, you didn’t enter the competition, you’ve never heard of the country, yet you’ve won. Doesn’t that sound a little odd?”

“Stranger things have happened,” argued Colin. “My dad won Spot The Ball with a nosebleed.”

Colin had – the Colombian authorities, or rather their Black Country representative, Fat Daz. Colin rang at a bad time, though. Daz was wrestling with a “bit of a rush on Big Macs”.

“He called me a jammy so-and-so, said he’d been doing the Colombian State Lottery for more than five years and had only ever scooped a donkey,” said Colin. “He promised, though, that my life would change forever by simply handing him my bank details.”

Gazing into the distance, he gushed: “Cars, home, expensive clothes...”

“...you’ll lose the lot,” I assured him.

“It’s the second slice of good luck I’ve had in recent weeks,” my pal boasted, refusing to bow to cold reality. “I scooped the prize in an ‘Are you the mystery shopper in our photograph?’ newspaper competition.

“Someone pretending to be me, spotted me and gave the paper my details. I’ve just got to confirm my pin number to claim the prize.”

That’s to confirm by telling them what it is. They’ll let him know if it matches the one they’ve got.

I told Colin that sounded a little far-fetched, too.

“Far-fetched!” he babbled, “it’s downright weird.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” he added in hushed tones, “but I cheated. I’ve never even been to the Sao Paulo Sainsbury’s.”